Seeing Little
by Happyritas
Summary: People come in all different categories. Some are funny others are stoic. Some are geniuses, others shockingly stupid. And then, some people are really, very tall, almost making you see double when you look at them. But people like Isidora are different, and instead they make you see... Little.
1. one

Chapter One:

Isidora could practically hear her father's voice screaming in her head as she struggled to get the grape off the stubborn vine. "You're wasting too much time!" He would say, "You don't need it."

"Give me a break, Papa," she mumbled to herself, finally getting the grape off. Grinning to herself, she shoved it into her saddlebag and began to hurry off. That was the last thing on her list of things she would need to borrow. She went back to her fishing line, which had been hanging patiently off the edge of the counter. Wrapping a hand around the wire, she hurried down the line.

Landing on the floor with ease, Isidora flicked her wrist, easily making the line flick off the edge and come down after her. Isidora caught the fishing hook before it hit the ground, and smirked to herself.

On a usual borrowing night, she would be in more of a hurry to get out of sight, but tonight, the beans who lived there were out, and she was free to roam the house as she pleased. After securing her fishing line in her bag, she began to walk around, thinking off other things to do to pass the time. She could... Read what the newspaper that Gregory Tucker, the male bean, had usually left on his desk. Or, she could go through Vanessa's vanity again. She like doing that, it made her feel regal and powerful. She love to pretend to do that.

Isidora grinned, deciding to do the latter, already making imagining plans in her mind. Tonight, she would be a powerful empress, taking the throne after her late, tyrannical husband passed. She would love the people, as they did her, and improve her kingdom, which her husband didn't care to do.

Finally, she made it to the end of the kitchen, and turned the corner, but came face to face with wide beady eyes, a wrinkly face, and a drooling mouth. Isidora gasped in surprise, "Prince! You scared me!" The dog, instead of looking guilt, ran his long, rough tongue over her small two-and-a-half inch body. Isidora cringed, backing away, "Ugh, really, Prince!?" Now, he looked guilty, whining and looking down. "You better be guilty," she muttered, rubbing a hand on his wet nose.

Prince perked up from the affection, dipping his head as she rubbed the bridge between his eyes, "Wanna give me a ride to Vanessa's room?" The dog gave a small bark, which Isidora took as a yes.

She grinned, climbing unto the bulldog's back, holding unto his collar. "Okay, go!" Isidora laughed at dog easily bounded down the long hall, and then up the stairs — she held on a bit tighter for that part, not wanting to accidentally fall... Again — and soon, made to the beans' shared room.

The door had been barely open, but Prince fixed that easily, shoving his face into the crack, an allowing it to creak open. Isidora grinned, slipping off his back, and heading to the large vanity. The vanity was a pearly white, which always somehow blinded Isidora every time she had seen it. The top was never neat. Jewelry was always scattered everywhere, sometimes on the ground as well, which made it all the more fun for Isidora to sift through. The assorted jewelry never stayed in the same spot, sometimes, she might see purple earrings near the edge, and other times, on the their side of the vanity. To most borrowers, this would signal that this area was used often, but to Isidora, this meant there was always something new to find due to its frequent shuffling.

She flung her fishing pole up at the table, easily landing it, but yanked it hard first. Sometimes, she'd accidentally get it in between a chain, so when she'd climb up, the jewelry would fall down. This time, however, nothing was 'accidentally' stuck, so she was able to shimmy up the line easily.

Just as she though, the jewelry had been rummage through again, she even spotted a few new jewels. Excitement filled her small body as she began go through the shiny jewels.

"How do you like this, Prince?" Isidora asked the dog, who had been chewing on a discarded shoe. At the sound of his name, Prince looked up. Isidora wore a gold ring and held a silver one, as if it were a handbag. "I'm thinking... A bean model! Or an actress! I haven't done that one in a while, haven't I?" The dog yawned sleepily, so she continued to go through the jewelry.

She heard a car riding near the house and she froze, they were back! Prince looked up, hearing their arrival as well. Stripping the oversized jewelry off her being, Isidora slipped down the line, and yanked it down. As she ran to one of her nearby tunnels — behind the vanity there was a small trapdoor she cut into the floor that she used frequently — and she heard the door open.

Prince began to growl, dangerously, which made her stop in her tracks, turning around. Prince was a lazy, yet friendly dog, and didn't seem to be distressed by a lot of things, but him growling at the beans? That was uncharacteristic of him.

Isidora cut her thought off short when she heard footsteps coming up the steps, "Quiet down!" She hissed, but the hairs on the back of his scruffy neck bristled, as the door opened. She went underground, standing on a worn, thick screw she used as a step-stool, and watched.

The bean was male, but didn't look at all like Gregory. He was slim — Gregory was very thick — and wore black slacks, from what she could see, and shiny shoes. She clamped a hand on her mouth in order to silence herself — not that it mattered, he wouldn't be able to hear someone as small as he was anyway.

Prince growled at the male, baring his sharp canines. He took a step back as the man stepped forward and Isidora heard a strange click. She wondered what this was until suddenly she heard a loud pop.

She screamed, stumbling back, off the screw. She hit her head on the floor, making pain spark across her vision. Her ears rang sharply; whatever that sound was popped her ear drums. After a few seconds, she stood up, climbing back unto the screw to see what happened.

Slowly she lifted the trap door, her arms shaking. She wanted to think she would find Prince standing there, his large pink tongue lolled out of his mouth and drool dripping down his wrinkled, mushed-up face.

Instead, she saw a bean's face staring right at her. His face was masked, but she saw two of the darkest green eyes she had seen in her life, one was squinting a bit harder than the other, as if it were injured, but both of them were staring directly at her.

Isidora ducked back underground, her chest racing, she had been seen! Spending no time to waste, she ran down the tunnel and back to her home. She was halfway across the end of the first tunnel when she felt something drip unto her. At first, dismissed it. Because of the piping, water dripped into the tunnels all the time, and sometimes if the beans would spill a liquid so it would leak down here. But this time, she froze. The liquid was... Red.

Isidora's breath hitched in bed throat, blood. It was blood. Suddenly, she felt faint, the tunnels were spinning round and round and round and round. Blood was everywhere, in her clothes, her hair, on the wall. Blood, blood, blood. It was filling past her knees, she was drowning in it!

"No!" Isidora gasped, trying to move, this couldn't happen, not now! Gritting her teeth, she forced her body to move, but the blood had made her feet stick to the ground, keeping her in place. "No! No! No!!" She pulled her leg, "Move!" She didn't move.

Isidora heard footsteps directly above her and she gasped, beginning to shake in fear. This couldn't be happening! She needed to stop hallucinating! There isn't this much blood, she was fine! She was fine!

Squeezing her eyes shut, Isidora took a deep breath. In, out. In, out, she chided herself. You can do this. After a few seconds, she slowly opened her eyes again, and the excessive blood had disappeared, but there was still some leaking from the floorboards.

Isidora took off running again, and this time, she didn't stop.

Prince was dead, and so was Vanessa and Gregory. Whoever that man was last night killed them all. When the couple got back home, he slit the male bean's throat, stabbed the female one, and left.

Isidora stared at the rotting bodies; nobody had noticed yet, but she assumed that someone would find them. Maybe the cleaning lady? She was scheduled to come in a few hours, actually. Isidora was the last one left, and she knew she had to leave.

Isidora clenched her fists, she wouldn't leave without giving them a hint to the murderer. His haunting dark green eyes had been in her dreams for the past several days, leaving her with restless nights. She pulled her glass shard of a knife out of her sheath and bent down. The only place next to them that wasn't covered in blood was beside Gregory's left hand. Unfortunately, she had accidentally stepped in some while trying to look around, and she left tiny little footprints on the ground. Finally, she began to scratch writings into the ground. It was a fetal effort, but she hoped that the beans would see it.

After she finished, she wished the beans one last goodbye. She didn't know why, they hadn't known she was in their home, but... She couldn't help but feel like she owed them. Especially for Prince. She should've done something! She shouldn't have left him!!

She ran a hand down her face, shaking the self-loathing thoughts from her mind. After one last thank you, Isidora left the room.

"Come along, Watson, we haven't got all day!" Sherlock called behind him, ignoring the disgusted look Donovan always gave him when he passed.

"Freak's here," she called to the others. She said it everything time he entered the room, and frankly, it was getting annoying and old.

John Waston quickly followed behind his partner, "I had the pay the cabbie," he explained, but Sherlock was already striding inside.

The doors to the home was already opened, and Lestrade was standing near the side, away from the body. He turned his head up when Sherlock arrived, but Sherlock's gaze was locked on the bodies. Deductions swarmed around it, as he looked at the corpses.

"The housemaid found them not too long ago," Lestrade said. "They were—"

"Murdered, obviously," Sherlock cut him off. "Where's the dog?"

"Pardon?" Lestrade's face was covered in confusion. Sherlock slipped a pair of blue plastic, doctor's gloves on and bent down, beside the female corpse. He plucked a dog's hair off her blood soaked shirt.

"Dog's hair. Rather old; she recently lint-rolled her shirt but she hadn't gotten everything. I'd say a small dog; gray, probably a bulldog."

Lestrade waved a hand to one of the officers near the side, "Go check the house." The man nodded and walked around the bottom level.

Sherlock spotted another thing, turning the man over. He was lying on his keys; he probably fell when the killer slit his throat. Then, the wife screamed, tried to run, but the killer grabbed her arm and stabbed her. But why kill them? Obviously rich. Husband was a businessman, finance. Wife was a model, but both of them lived hushed lives. Nothing that was worthy of murder.

Then it clicked, he was taking money. Cheating people out of their expenses. That would explain the expensive house, and make him a big enough target for murder.

But who did it? He's had several hundred clients. Sherlock's eyes darted back to the stab wound of the wife. Judging by the wound, the knife was plunged down into her heart, not up. So the killer was tall.

"Sherlock, look at this," John said, pointing near the man's head. Beside the dried pool of blood, there were... Footprints. Small, footprints, he hadn't caught. "What makes prints this small? A mouse?"

"No," Sherlock said. "Mice don't leave prints like that." He pulled out his cellphone and snapped a picture of the queer footprints. Then, his eyes moved to the rest of the bodies, looking for more prints, but instead, found something even better.

He whipped his magnifying glass out of his pocket and looked down at the scrawly writing etched into the wooden floor.

'man tall dark green eyes killed prince scarred in his left eye.'

Sherlock stared down at the writing. "What is it?" John asked, and Sherlock passed him the magnifying glass.

"Who would write that small and tell us about the killer?" Sherlock wondered aloud.

"Maybe it's a trick?" John suggested. "Giving you a false appearance to throw you off," Sherlock shook his head.

"Why waste time on writing that, if they knew we weren't going to find him?" John was at a loss for words, and then one of the officers tramped down the steps.

"There's a dead bulldog upstairs, shot and killed," he reported.

"Prince," Sherlock said, making heads turn his way. "That's the dogs name. Whoever wrote the note was attached to the dog, and was giving us hints." But that still didn't explain the abnormally small handwriting. Maybe so that it would be harder to track? Makes sense, a person who would want to help but didn't want to get involved or mistaken to be the murderer.

Sherlock gave a small sigh, this wasn't a unusual murder, and he was hoping for a serial killer, but this would do have to do, he supposed. As long as it kept him distracted, but of course, it wouldn't last long. "Lestrade, get me every financial case that he has worked in the past twelve months, but only the males." Lestrade nodded, relaying the order to a officer under him as Sherlock strode to the door. His long, black tailcoat billowing after him with the movement as he and his partner left.

Isidora was lucky to catch a ride on one of the retreating cars as the beans left, and was even more enthusiastic to find that one of the beans had found her message.

She stayed in the air-vents and watched as he inspected the corpses. He was tall — taller than a usual bean — and had mousy curly black hair. His eyes were a pale blue, almost giving it a grayish tone. Although he hadn't directly looked at her, she could see the gleam of excitement in them. Beside him was a slightly shorter man, with blonde hair and blue eyes. He was listening as the first man talked to himself, then ordered a few things, which began to bore Isidora.

A few hours later, they began to leave and all the bodies had been moved elsewhere. Isidora supposed they were going to the city, so she hitched a ride on one of the cars, easily hiding underneath the leather seats. She found herself among dust bunnies and other assorted thing, which made her grin, perfect for borrowing.

It had taken them about a hour's or so drive, which hadn't been too bad. She found a ripped part of a magazine underneath the seats, which she spent some of her time reading it. It wasn't anything important, but she loved reading anything, so a short cut-off article on finances was the best thing to read, and help pass the time.

Isidora finished the article in a few minutes, however, and decided to go through her stuff instead. She packed everything she would need before she left. Her knife, her borrowing gear, and outfit which she wore. She decided to leave any extra food there, but ate as much a she could stomach the night before. Isidora didn't know where the car would take her, but she assume it was the city.

Isidora had once lived in the city for a while, living from sewer to sewer before she hitched a ride on a taxi going out of the city and with Tucker's. She wondered if anyone she knew was still there. Probably not, they most likely moved away by now. Besides, it had been a few years, and they moved frequently.

Soon, the car had came to a stop, and the doors opened. Isidora easily slipped out of the car before it could close again. She found herself on concrete ground. Isidora ran to a nearby pillar before she could be seen, but the two beans didn't pay her any mind, and walked away, talking to each other about something she hadn't cared to listen to.

After they had left, Isidora looked around. There was a entrance leading out into the city on the other side of the room, where thy had also parked the car. She frowned, upset that she would have to walk that far, until she found a sewer on the side. A grin lit up on her face as she ran over, beginning her adventure in the new city.


	2. two

Chapter Two:

Isidora had been trudging in the sewers for what felt like forever. She hadn't quite remembered them as they were now, long, and tiring. To pass the time, Isidora began to imagine again, letting her mind wander.

"Today... I'll be a explorer discovering new lands to conquer!" She said to herself, as she carried on. She would find the treasure that would be buried deep in the tunnels, and somehow not get lost. At least, more lost than she already was.

At this point, she didn't quite know if she was going the right direction, or the wrong one. She didn't know if she was getting closer to the city or farther and farther away. Her feet began to grow weary and ached from travel. Her head felt light from the stench of the sewage, but she wouldn't allow herself to stop.

Taking in a breath, she marched on. Maybe, she would find that man in the city, the odd, curly haired one. She wondered if he was still trying to find the man who killed Prince and the Tucker's. Isidora began to loathe him, now. Even though she hadn't even known him. All she could remember were those dangerous green eyes, glaring at her, staring into her very soul.

Isidora shuddered, she definitely didn't want to think about that right now. She continued to march, her bag bumping by her side with every step.

Soon, the minutes had turned into hours, and Isidora was bone tired. She had encountered a few rats and mice, but thankfully, none had tried to approach her, at least, not yet.

Isidora felt a shiver crawl down her spine, tonight she refused to become rat food! She began to trot faster as she turned another corner in the long tunnels, charily looking for any dangers that might want to show itself.

She had become a lost soul on a abandoned island, looking for food or a way off its grainy shores, but also trying not to become food herself. Isidora gripped her blade handle tighter as she moved, crouching instinctively, as if ready to shoot up like a spring and run. She turned the corner, noticing a light at the end of the tunnel, probably a sewer opening. Contemplating this for a bit, Isidora decided to go there, and find somewhere to rest for the night. That is, until she could decided what to do or where to go.

A squeak made her stiffen, and she swiveled around, whipping her blade out. She saw its beady black eyes from the other side of the short ledge in which she was walking. It's body hunched over, and it's large, dangerous teeth sharpened from running them along the bones of its victims. The rat had dwarfed her uncanny 2 1/2 height without even standing on its hind legs. It's body was a scruffy gray and it's fur matted with dirt, grim, and other unknown, revolting substances.

Instead of running, Isidora stood as tall as she could, holding her blade to the animal dangerously. She had dealt with rats before, this one — although one of the largest she had seen — was no different. Without warning, the rat bounded her way, and she hadn't moved. It jumped at her, it's razor sharp claws outstretched and ready, and she sidestepped, tittering over the ledge.

The rat ran, its small brain hadn't noticed that she had moved, and she used this opportunity to bring her hands down on its pink, long tail.

Blood squirted everywhere and the disembodied tail squirmed, as if it were still attached to its owner, before going still. The injured rat screeched in pain, the sound heightened by the roundness, of the tunnels, seemingly echoing off of them. Isidora flinched, bringing a hand to her ears. The rat turned around, swiping at her back, it's sharp claws digging into her skin before swatting her away like a bug. Isidora let out a cry of pain before she hit the wall.

Her head pounded and she felt a warm substance trickling down her dark-toned hoodie. Her mind grew dizzy and hazed, and she didn't know whether it was from bloodless or pure exhaustion. She saw the rat approach her, it's eyes crazed and probably really angry. Isidora shakily raised her knife and before it could strike, she plunged it upwards, into it's jaw and head. The rat screamed in pain, and she quickly yanked it out. It stumbled back towards the edge of the ledge, where the metal met dark, black waters that didn't look like it had any end.

Isidora stood up shakily before the rat could recover, using all her might to push it off the edge. It squealed in terror, it's claws had tried to grab at her, but she jumped back, allowing the rat to get submerged under the dirty water and dragged away by the current.

Isidora didn't move for several seconds, wanting to stop and catch a breath, but she knew her scent of blood was in the air. If she tried to stay, she would more likely than not be attacked again.

Isidora looked down at the end of the tunnel, that still held the light. She silently hoped this wasn't a trick her mind was playing on her again as she limped towards it.

Once again, Isidora found herself in the city, which she was happy to see. It seemed more lively than when she was with the other car. There was more commotion, more cars, more... Everything. Luckily, it had also been a bit late in the night, so not a lot of people were roaming the streets at this time, giving her the chance to slip out of the grating. She ran for the shadows and had luckily went unseen. Her backside was still bleeding and she desperately needed somewhere to stop and rest.

Isidora walked for about ten minutes, staying in the shadows and out of sight, but also looking for any entrances she could use. Finally, she saw a older woman come out of her home, and Isidora took a step back. "I'll hold the door for you," she said. Then, another man stepped out, carrying a large box, and it looked heavy — of course, everything looked heavy to her — since he was struggling to carry it. Noticing her chance, Isidora began to crawl along the side of the stone steps, completely out of sight.

After the man had gotten out the door, another one came just behind him, "Why is that taking so long to carry?" The second man demanded with a bored tone.

"It's bloody heavy!" The first man wheezed, and the second scoffed. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." After a moment the second man, who had been strangely yelling, 'taxi', inhaled.

"Yes, thank you for making yourself useful," he finally agreed, although he didn't sound pleased with it at all.

"No problem, dear," the woman answered. Finally, Isidora had made it to the top, relieved to find the door still open enough for her to slip through.

She glanced behind her for a second, her brown eyes locking with pale blue ones that seemed bored and gazed over her, as if they hadn't seen her at all. Isidora started, then scurried inside, hiding herself under a large cabinet.

"Sherlock?" John called, snapping the man out of his thoughts. Sherlock whipped around to see him in front of a impatient looking cabbie. John had already set the box down where their feet would go, and was waiting inside the cab for him. "Ready?"

Sherlock moved away, stepping into the cab as well. "Yes, yes," he said dismissively, as he sat. He gave directions to the next crime scene, and then looked out the window, lost in thought.

"What's the matter with you?" John asked, noticing his friend hadn't been as chatty as usual.

"Nothing, I just thought I saw something..." Sherlock muttered, probably not loud enough for him to hear. Then, he cleared his throat, sitting up. "Nothing at all." He bent down, picking up the box of files at his feet. The box contained every male client Gregory Tucker — the dead victim — had every worked with, but none of them fit the description of the strange message that had been left for them. He had began to agree with John's suggestion that it had been false, but he didn't quite believe it. Why would someone give him a description of the killer, and then ask to save the dead dog?

As he and John had been looking trough the files, he got another call from Lestrade saying there was another murder, which had him more than excited. Two in the short span of twenty-four hours? Maybe — he dared to hope — this random murder was turning into a serial killer.

Sherlock couldn't stop the grin growing on his face.

Isidora grunted, finally getting the screw out of the floor-air vent. The AC had been on, and it had nearly been an hour since then two men left. Her entire back throbbed with pain, but she bit down on her lip harshly, refusing to make a sound and alert the other older bean who had been roaming around.

With much effort, Isidora pushed the side of the vent slightly, allowing her to to slip through the vent.

She fell down the metal shaft with thud, landing on her stomach. She let out a cry of pain, and she curled into herself, whimpering. She has to keep moving, Isidora chided herself, now is not the time to be crying and complaining and—

Isidora froze, a drop of water splatting on her head. Oh, no! Not this again!

Scrambling to get up, Isidora began to ran as a large wave of water chased after her. It's not real! It's not real!! She told herself over and over and over again, but... Her mind wouldn't let her believe it.

Stubbornly, Isidora stopped in her tracks, "It's... Not... Real..." She said through gritted teeth, as if she were being strangled and it was difficult to speak.

The wave, which had been a few feet behind her, crashed into her, and she refused to gasp. Her clothes were soaked through, and her body sagged as she was floating away like a leaf on a pond. It's not real... She thought, please, it isn't real. It can't be it's not—

Isidora shot up, finding herself back in the same spot before she left. The sudden movement made pain spike through her spine, and she grimaced.

Standing up as straight as she could stand, she continued to walk in the air vents for as far as her feet could take her.

After climbing up a rather high vent, she looked around, finding a opening on the floor; probably connected to the ceiling.

Isidora scrambled over, looking down, all she could see were the tops of heads, but she did see familiar curly hair, and she frowned. That... Couldn't be the man from the Tucker's home? He lived here!? Isidora almost snorted at the coincidence.

"How do you know it a serial killer?" Her blood ran cold. Serial killer? "It's only been two murders, completely coincidental."

"The murderer was caught on a camera in the second murder. His face had been completely covered except for his eyes, which had been green. That matches the message from the first murder." The curly man sounded excited, and began to pace the room. Isidora glanced towards the other side, finding a glimpse of what looked like a kitchen. Dishes were piled everywhere, and equipment and jars flooded the counters. It was an absolute mess! There was so much stuff on the counter, no one would ever be able to spot Isidora if she went through there.

Isidora grinned at her new assignment, and began to walk towards the side, ignoring the two men's bantering. "Do you know where the first aid kit is, John?" The question made her freeze.

"It's in my room, why?"

"I need cotton balls."

"You have your own cotton balls."

"Yours have a better quality than mine's." Isidora couldn't care less about cotton balls, but what she did care about was medicine. She needed bandages for her back or it might get infected. And she didn't need a lot.

Isidora began to make a list in her head of things she needed to borrow from the two beans. Food, bandages, maybe a new string — hers was getting rather worn down —, water, definitely water, and a small place to sleep. That wasn't that hard!

Isidora went to the other side of the vent, finding a ledge once again. Sighing, she hooked her fishing hook in between the metal plates, and began to slowly go down. She wasn't able to move too much because of her back, but she didn't have to hurry either; it had been late and they beans would be going to sleep soon. She had all night to look through their small home.

Then, her line began loosen, as if it were falling apart. Her eyes widened and she tried to hurry, but it was too late. The hook had slipped and she was falling through the air and into the darkness going down down down...

She hit the metal plating on her back and she screamed. She could see something glinting in the air and she quickly rolled to the side. Not a second later, the hook landed right in the spot she once laid, sticking out of the metal.

Tears streamed down Isidora's face from the pain, and she couldn't move. She felt blood seep through her shirt again. She hated blood. It dripped down on her face, submerging her in the red liquid, and slowly let her drown. A part of wanted to drown. She wanted to stop. She wanted to just let go and—

"I didn't raise you for sixteen years for you to be a quitter!" Her father's voice pounded through her skull. "Get your lazy ass off the ground and keep going!"

"I can't, Papa," she sobbed. "I can't do it!"

"Hey, look at me, mi hija," she slowly opened her eyes. "You are a conquistador in the 1500s. You are scouting new land and you will stop at nothing to get it."

"I can't Papa..." Isidora whispered.

"Oye! Conquistadors don't say, 'I can't'. They only say, 'I will.' Now, go, mi perezosa mija." Isidora laughed a little, but rolled to her side. Her hand touched the ground, and she slipped on her own blood. A whimper of pain betrayed her lips, but she commanded her trembling body to stand.

Yanking her hook out of the vent, Isidora continued to tread through the vents. Every step felt like a battle she was failing to win, but she refused to lose the war.

Eventually, Isidora made it to a vent on the wall. She quickly checked her position. She was near a couch, easily giving her the chance to hide away. Both men had left by this point, she didn't care to check where.

Finally, she got the side to open and she slipped out, leaving the metal grating to slant slightly. As soon as she slipped out, a large jar was placed over her, slamming down on the ground. Isidora screamed, as the man tipped the jar over, sending her head over heels to the bottom, of the jar. Her backside hit the bottom painfully, and Isidora let out a groan.

"How peculiar..." The man's voice echoed over her. "I had been expecting a mouse or something of that sort but a small person...?" He moved the jar closer to his face, his pale blue eyes seeing straight through her trembling person. "What are you?"

Isidora's heart pounded in her chest, and she could feel the blood loss, terror, and pure exhaustion catching up with her. A second later, the entire world went dark and she fainted.

Sherlock had been surprised to hear a loud scream, well, he couldn't really say it was 'loud'. More of a hissing that caught his ear. It had came from the walls an echoed out of the brass plating of air vents. Then, there was a thud, which perked his interests even more.

Silence followed for maybe five minutes before he heard... Were those footsteps? Someone had been limping, and Sherlock frowned. It was coming from the ventilation shaft that hung beside his chair. If it were something walking in there, he should be able to capture it. It was probably a rodent of some sort, but even then a rodent would make a great experimenting subject.

Sherlock got up, getting a glass jar which had been filled with disembodied fingers, but he decided that that prolonged experiment could wait.

Spilling the fingers on the table, Sherlock stood near the side. He almost felt silly to wait for the animal, but at the same time, rather excited.

Finally, a screw dropped to the ground and a small figure slipped out of a crack that was barely the width of his finger. Quickly, he slammed the jar down, and the rodent screamed, almost sounding human-like. He had never heard of a mouse that could scream like a human, but that would make it all the more fun to examine, he supposed.

Sherlock lifted the jar, easily slipping it, making the figure fall to the bottom. It was finally when he was able to get a good glimpse at it, when his eyes widened.

"How peculiar," Sherlock murmured, staring at a small girl who had been trapped in his makeshift glass prison. "I had been expecting a mouse or something of that sort but a small person...?" He brought the jar closer to his face, to get a better look through the few translucent wall that divided him from it. "What are you?"

The small girl's eyes had turned to saucers, her chest heaving in panic before her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped against the jar. Her small body slipped against the glass, red, sticky blood staining the glass. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, when had she been injured?

Sherlock placed the jar on the stand beside his chair, pulling up his laptop. Surely there had to be something on this peculiar creature, he told himself as he began to search the strange race of small people.


	3. three

Chapter Three:

Isidora woke up in a rather uncomfortable position. She felt kinks in her spine from resting in strange position, but something told her not to stretch.

Isidora tried to sit up, her movements feeling weak, but she forced herself to move anyway. Where was she? What happened? She was... In the vents, but then she fell... And... Papa was there. He helped her, didn't he? He made her move. Then, she found a opening and she tried to get away, but...—

Isidora stood up straight, moving to the sides of the jar. Her breathing escalated, she had been seen. No, even worse, she was seen and then trapped!

"Oh, you've awaken," the deep baritone of a man said beside her. Isidora jumped, moving to the side and pressing her back against the jar, as if that would help her get away from the man.

It was the same man from the crime scene and from the night before. He had curly hair, pale white skin as if it had never seen the sunlight, and defined cheekbones. He also had pale, crystal blue eyes, which made her shudder. The man noticed, raising an thin eyebrow, "I highly doubt you'd be cold in that jar. It's been in the sunlight for hours. In fact, I'd assume you'd be baking." Isidora shrank away, he wasn't wrong. She was feeling rather hot, and the holes poked through the top of the metal top wasn't proving to be as much as a vent as she had hoped.

Yet his eyes were what chilled her to the bone. Cold, calculating. She felt naked under his gaze. In fact, she imagined herself to be a actress who forgot the words to her most important song. The crowd would boo at her as she froze, staring straight into their insatiable glares.

Somehow, she laughed at this. How was she able to imagine at a time like this!? But her giggling didn't stop. Isidora covered her face in her hands, bringing her knees to her chest as she shook with unconcealed laughter. She would be killed for this, no doubt. She wondered how he would do it? Squish her? Let her bleed out? Keep her in his cabinet to rot? Or, maybe he would drown her. She supposed her mind would like that the most, seeing as much as it would hallucinate her and torture her into thinking she was drowning.

"Why are you laughing?" The man asked, curiously. Isidora didn't want to answer him. She could feign muteness to him, defiantly refusing to talk to him. He had trapped her, after all, but somehow, she felt like she was talking to Prince again, pretending to be something she surely wasn't on top of Vanessa's vanity.

"I am a failed comedian..." Isidora said. Her voice was low, and she wondered if he could hear her. "... With a morbid sense of humor." She looked up at the man, ignoring the fear that made her want to vomit from looking at her. "Might I ask, how will you kill me?"

Surprise crawled along the man's face, before he quickly concealed it, and it became his impassive. "If you don't die from experimentations you'll be fine," the man said in careless tone.

Isidora couldn't help but sigh, "Experimentations. What an unsatisfactory way to die..." She murmured. "My mind wouldn't let me hear the end of it. It would expect me to drown, but... I suppose this is somewhat longer."

The man gave her a strange look. "Why would you...? Never mind that, are you injured?" Injured? Of course, she was injured, but why did he care? He was a bean, after all, and he probably was going to kill her.

But, he did ask. What use of a test subject be to him if she was injured? "... Yes," she answered after a moments hesitation. "My back." The man turned the jar around, and she stumbled, falling to her knees.

The man seemed to inspect her backside, then he picked the jar up. Isidora squeaked, as the man unscrewed the top and tipped it over.

Isidora tried to hold onto the sides of the jar, to stop herself from falling out, but the sides were slippery, and it was useless. Isidora fell out of the jar and unto the squishy surface of the man's hand.

Her heart hammered in her chest, and she looked up, almost missing the solidarity of the glass jar. Granted she couldn't get out, but at least nothing could get in.

Two large fingers pinched at the back of her shirt and Isidora gasped, trying to get off the man's hand but it was no use. He moved her around in his fingers, examining her back. "This looks bad. How did you get this?"

Swallowing her fear that was rising in her throat, she replied, "A rat. It attacked me."

"It did this to you," the man moved her closer, making her dangle helplessly from his fingers. She let out what sounded like a squeak, definitely terrified. Isidora looked down, but quickly regretted it. She was so high up. She felt as if she was going to fall at any second — she could fall at any second. Isidora was at the mercy of this stranger, and if he decided to drop her she didn't quite know which would kill her first: the fall or her terror.

Isidora felt someone touch her back, and she yelped, trying to curl in on herself, but it her back screamed in pain when she moved. "John would be much more suitable to help you; he has steadier hands." Isidora tried to move around to see him. Who was John? Maybe John was the other blonde man from earlier.

The man finally set her back in the jar and Isidora struggled to stay standing. His quick movements made her slightly dizzy. The man securely placed the jar's top back on, and picked it up. Isidora moved to sit, it was easier than standing with everything moving around her.

The man strode to a door, which had been opened. Another man — which she assumed had been John — was sitting up straight on the bed. He was pulling a shirt down over his head, so he must've just gotten dressed. Thankfully, he already had trousers on.

"Would you knock, please," John said in a exasperated tone. "What is it, Sherlock?" Sherlock? What a strange name? Of course, it fit the strange man who refused to kill her after finding her.

Sherlock gave John the jar she was trapped inside, "She's injured."

"What? Who's hurt?" John demanded, looking into the jar. His blue eyes met her brown ones and — much to her surprise — he yelped, dropping the jar in his hands.

Isidora screamed, as the jar bounced off the edge of the bed, and fell through the air for a few seconds before colliding with the ground. Her head collided with the wall of the glass, making her vision go black for a few seconds. Then, she woke up, just as the glass jar was being raised in the air. Isidora hit the bottom of the jar, luckily her hands had been outstretched and she landed on her belly.

Isidora could only listen as the two men shouted at one another. "Why would you drop her!?" Sherlock demanded.

"I didn't know you were keeping little people in jars!" John snapped back, "Maybe a head's up next time!"

"I handed her to you!"

"You should have told me she was in there!"

"I said: 'She's injured.' How much more of a warning do you need?"

John groaned and Isidora felt the jar move again — she was beginning to despise this jar. "Is she even alive?" Isidora wondered if she should go still, just to think she had died from the impact, but Sherlock interrupted her before she could speak.

"She just moved."

Isidora raised a head, finding herself looking at the blue-eyed man again. She was shocked to find his gaze filled with guilt, "You are alive! I apologize for dropping you, I didn't know..." He trailed off, probably not quite knowing how to finish that sentence.

She wanted to assure him that she was fine, but she was still in a jar which they hadn't released her from yet. Besides, they were beans. They probably had something much worse planned for her other than just causally dropping her. So, Isidora stayed silent, and instead checked her head, relieved not to find blood matting her brown hair together. But, the spot that had collided with the glass was tender to the touch, so she dropped her hand to her side.

"She... Doesn't talk?" John asked, turning to Sherlock.

"She does talk," he replied drily. "She's just not talking right now."

"What's your name?" John asked, and Isidora gave the man a hesitant look, weighing whether or not she should tell. They haven't killed her yet, she reasoned. Why not?

"Isidora," Isidora replied, and Sherlock gave her a strange look.

"You're Hispanic?"

"Hispanic is used to describe beans. I'm a borrower," she snapped. Isidora was almost surprised to find anger boiling in her.

"What's a borrower?" John asked.

"I borrow things," Isidora said, shifting the weight of her bag on her shoulder. She was surprised it lasted this long, and hadn't fallen yet. Or, that Sherlock hadn't taken it from her. She should've stabbed him in the hand when he held her earlier...

"You're a thief?" Sherlock corrected, and she glared at him for the repulsive word.

"I'm a borrower!" She snapped. Isidora had read about thieves in stories, taking things that were of great value just to sell it elsewhere. Thieves were greedy, thieves were selfish. Thieves cared about nothing other than their own wellbeing. Borrowers were different. The were selfless(usually), and they only took things they needed or things that nobody would notice!

Sherlock looked a bit taken back by her sudden anger, but looked more amused than surprised. "How about we let you out so I can look at you?" John suggested. He seemed much kinder than Sherlock, his eyes were warm and welcoming. He and Sherlock differed from each other so much that Isidora could barely stifle her laugh.

John tipped the jar over carefully, his hand placed at the bottom, and Isidora yelled again, "No! No! Not into your hand!" She screamed, surprising herself. John stopped, turning the jar right side up, "Sorry." She apologized suddenly, "Could you set me down on a table...?"

"Of course," John replied, going to his night stand and spilling the jar over carefully so she could slide out. Once Isidora was able to stand up straight, she looked at John. "Could you take off your shirt and turn around for me?" Isidora nodded, easily turning around while taking off her black-destroyed long sleeved shirt, leaving her in a makeshift-tanned bra made out of left over cloth.

"This looks bad, but it's hard to tell without having some sore of magnification..." John muttered. Sherlock came behind John, taking a circular glass out of his coat and handing it to her. "Oh, thank you." He turned back to Isidora, "Stay still." Following his instructions, she stayed completely still, imagining to herself.

She is a statue in a park of people, Isidora told herself. If she dare to allow myself to be seen moving, she would be cursed to be turned to stone forever. And if she was forever stone, she wouldn't be able to dance when everyone else has decided to leave for the night, or even better, see her lover that she have longed to see for nearly a week now.

"Your wounds looks like it's healing nicely, so you won't need stitches," John informed her. "But, I'm going to clean it and bandage it," John went to his bed, pulling a red-and-white kit out from underneath it. Setting the kit on his bed, John rummaged through it, finally getting a white bandage and a bottle she didn't recognize out.

John took the cotton swabs, swirling them in the substance, then looked up at her. "Turn around and put your arms up." Following his orders, Isidora spun around and raised her fingers towards the forever untouchable ceiling. She felt John press the white swab on her back and she hissed as the wounds mixed with the alcoholic cleaning substance. "So... Isidora, how did you get here?"

"The sewers," Isidora answered quietly, not wanting to speak too loud, afraid she'd might disrupt John's work. "But before that, I caught a ride on a police car that came from the Tuckers' mansion."

"'The Tuckers' mansion'?" John repeated and Isidora gave a short nod. He began to wrap her chest in the white bandages, then securely tied it.

"They were recently murdered..." Isidora replied, pulling her shirt back over her head.

"Wait," Sherlock looked at her, his eyes wide with excitement. "Were you the one who wrote that note?"

"Yes, I did—"

"So you've seen him!"

"... Yes..." She was a bit hesitant to answer, wondering where his words were going.

"Great!" His hand swiped down to grab her, but he was too slow. Isidora vaulted over his hand, only touching the top of it, to push herself off. She landed on her feet easily, and glared at him.

"Oye! No grabbing!" She snapped, glaring at him. Sherlock didn't care and tried to grab her again, but his fist only caught air when she nimbly danced around it.

"Sherlock, stop," John said, pulling his massive arm away. "She obviously doesn't want to be touched." Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but then something began to buzz on him, and he pulled a rectangular device out of his pocket.

"There's been another murder," the voice on the other side said. "On the intersection of 31st and Henry 4th."

"I'm on my way," Sherlock answered, his eyes giddy with excitement. He looked at John, completely forgetting Isidora for the time being, "Three murders in two days? Tell me that's not a serial killer!"

"But there's no pattern," John replied. "This isn't a serial killer, it's just a murdering spree." Isidora tried to climb down the table that she stood on, hoping to get away before either of them realized she was gone. Her hopes were soon diminished when Sherlock grabbed her before she could run, holding her small body in his fist tightly.

"Let me go!" Isidora demanded, as she was roughly dropped into a dark piece of fabric. Then, the entire room swung around and she was pressed against a wall, trying not to scream.

"Sherlock! You can't just grab her and do that!" John said angrily. Isidora fell to her knees when the movement slowed, but there was still a small swaying of the dark fabric prison.

"She's fine," Sherlock said carelessly. "I only wanted to take her to see if she could find anything from the first murder." Then, Sherlock began to run.

The entire ride for Isidora had been bumpy and unpleasant. She had been screaming at Sherlock and even John for treating her this way, yelling vulgar obscenities in every language she knew. Finally, they were in a car, and the door slammed shut. A hand snakes in the pocket and yanked her out by the back of her shirt. Isidora winced, pulling a bit of hair out of his grip.

"Would you stop picking me up!?" She hissed. Sherlock set her body down on John's leg — his had been tapping rapidly and couldn't seem to stop.

"I'm sorry, Isidora," John apologized. He was going to explain, but Sherlock cut in.

"What do you know of the murderer? Were those clues you left is real? Did you see his face? Why where you there in the first place? Why did he kill the dog? Why would you tell us about it?" Isidora felt dizzy, but she wasn't sure whether it was from all the sudden jerky movements catching up to her, or his bombardment of questions she tried to comprehend.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down there, compañero," she said. "Uhh, I only know the physical appearance of the killer. He had tanned skin and green eyes. His face was roundish, almost, and his hair was a dirty blonde colour. He was tall, really tall—"

"Everyone's tall to you," Isidora glared at Sherlock for the comment, but he shrugged it off.

"And... His left eye was squinted, probably from a burn or..." Isidora paused, thinking back on his treacherous eyes. They made her feel small and helpless. She hated his eyes. "Maybe it was stitches? I–I don't know..."

"That's fine," John assured, and Sherlock looked out the window, thinking. "Thank you, Isidora." Isidora nodded, as the car came to a stop. Sherlock grabbed her off John's leg again and shoved her quickly into his pocket.

"Stop it!" She hissed, but Sherlock either didn't care or didn't bother to listen. Isidora heard the door close, and the two of them walking.

"You shouldn't hold her like that, Sherlock," John scolded.

"She's the size of a paper doll," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And it's the fastest mode of transportation."

"At least tell her!" John hissed, "Don't just grab her out of the blue! You'll make her injuries worse." Sherlock didn't reply as he walked faster. Isidora wasn't able to see what was going on, but she ran over to the opening of the side pocket. Her feet sinking through the fabric making every step a challenge.

Finally, she got to the edge and poked her small head out. Isidora saw the inside of what looked like a restaurant. A bakery, by the smell of it, and the lingering scent of bread made her mouth water.

Isidora looked down, finding a body on the floor. It was a man. He was buff and very tall. His arms were muscular, and his chest wide. His features, although forever relaxed now, looked stressed for there were wrinkles under his eyes. His hair had turned grey, but there were a few patches of black that hadn't changed. His hands looked calloused and strong, probably from years upon years of pounding dough.

There was no blood on this man, but his face had a greenish tint to it, and saliva tracks ran down the side of his mouth. Isidora recalled years of living in a library and reading medical books. He was poisoned, she thought. A swift one too, maybe cyanide? That would be easiest to come by.

Isidora's trained eyes trailed to his hand, finding a gold ring on it with a strange marking engraved in it. "... Wife is still missing," another man said, and Isidora realized that she had barely been listening. "Whoever killed him somehow was able to kidnap her. We don't know why, but we have people looking for her now. If he wanted ransom, he didn't leave a note or anything for it."

"Hmm... That's a big ring," John murmured under his breath, but nobody took notice to it.

Sherlock bent down and Isidora yelped, losing her footing, and falling backwards into his pocket. Grumbling, she stood up, grateful to feel his thigh underneath her, giving her somewhat of a better footing. Isidora ran to the opening, only to quickly have Sherlock's hand push her back down.

Isidora glared at it, trying to shove past it, but his hand was too strong and he grabbed her, moving a finger to cover her mouth. Isidora bit down on his hand angrily, and he jumped, letting her fall back into his pocket. "... Are you okay, Sherlock...?" The man from earlier asked.

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled. Isidora felt proud that she was able to injure him, even if it was a little. Isidora sat down in his pocket, satisfied, but her mind trailed back to the man's ring. It was strange... Those markings looked familiar almost.

No, she shook her head. They couldn't be. It was probably a marking that he had inscribed on there for his wife.

She needed to see it, Isidora finally decided. She stood up against Sherlock's leg. Isidora began to pound rhythmically on it, hoping he'd understand.

Short-Long-Short. Short-Short. Long-Short. Long-Long-Short.

Isidora kept tapping this out, waiting a second to two for him to do something, before tapping it again. "What are you doing?" She heard John ask, and she paused mid-beat.

There was a short pause, before Sherlock's hand came over the pocket. It was covered in what looked like blue plastic, but she didn't worry about that right now. "Sherlock, you can't just put that away," the other man scolded him.

"I know not to touch it, Lestrade," Sherlock replied, and Isidora felt like the statement was meant for her. Swallowing, Isidora looked over the ring that he held in his hand. The engravings were pointed to her, and Isidora's eyes widened. Those were... Borrower markings! It was usually used to show if there were borrowers in that area, but... Why was it here? And on his ring?

After examining it, Isidora noticed something else strange about it. The markings were huge! Bigger than anything she could carve, at least into a gold ring. The writing she made into the wood floor was exactly that; wood. But this, this was gold. It could take hours for someone of her size and strength to engrave something like that I wood, and then have it go unnoticed by the bean? She couldn't comprehend it!

Isidora knew she had little time. Sherlock holding the ring in his pocket for this long had to look suspicious. So, she pushed the hand away, signaling silently that she was done and then sat in the corner of his pocket, engrossed in her troubling thoughts.

"Short-Long-Short. Short-Short. Long-Short. Long-Long-Short." = R. I. N. G. in morse code.

"Oye," is hey (but as a exclamatory term, when you're angry or upset.)

Also, "compañero" means buddy in Spanish.

I feel really proud that I didn't need google translate to tell me that. My two-and-a-half years of — failing — Spanish actually paid off! I hope you're happy, Señor Goñzalez, I'm using your class to write fan-fiction ! I'm not a total failure!

Omg, he would hate me, lol...


	4. four

Chapter Four:

"Why did you need the ring?" Sherlock asked once the three were back in a taxi. Isidora sat on John's leg, her legs hanging off the side, and she drummed her fingers on his thigh. "What was so important about it?"

"It was engraved," Isidora finally replied.

"I know - why is that important?" Sherlock interrupted impatiently.

"The engraving... It was a borrower sign," she answered, her brain still racking for clues. She hadn't seen any other signs of a borrower living there - of course, she hadn't had the luxury to scout out the area and give a thorough look. Besides, it was a bakery. Borrowers rarely live in restaurants because it is easy to be mistaken for mice, which means they'll set out traps, or even call an Exterminator.

Isidora shuddered at the thought. She had only heard stories of the Exterminator - beans who specialized in killing rodents, and usually several lives of other borrowers were lost in the process. Nothing was safe if the Exterminator was called; even the air became your enemy.

Isidora shook the thought out of her head, focusing. The man had saw her back at the Tucker's - he hadn't screamed, he hadn't tried to grab her. He just look at her. Studied her. Why? And why would he kill Prince? Prince was a bulldog, a small dog. He wasn't a threat - dogs like he was aren't known for their heightened sense of smell. She knew that from a book she read when she was young. An encyclopedia on dogs, and was quite interesting.

Isidora was yanked out of her thoughts when she was raised by the back of her shirt, and unto someone's hand. Her stomach rose in her throat, and she scrambled back, surprised. "Were you deducting?" Sherlock asked, raising her to his face. Her eyebrow twitched, he had to pick her up to ask that!?

Stubbornly, she turned away, crossing her arms over her chest. "Isidora!"

"I'm not talking to you until you stop picking me up," Isidora said, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Just answer the question!"

"Stop picking me up."

"You were, weren't you!"

"I don't even know what that means."

"You don't know what deduct means?"

"Of course I know what deduct means!" She snapped. "Put me down, damn it!" Sherlock gave her an annoyed look, but set her back on John's leg.

"What were you thinking about, then?"

Isidora sighed, thinking of whether or not she should blatantly ignore his question, but she wanted to get the thought out of her head. "Prince."

"The dog from the first murder?"

"Yes," she replied. "Why would he kill him?"

"Is this a sedimental thing?"

"No!" Isidora rolled her eyes, "I'm just curious. Why kill him? I mean, yes, he is a dog, but he posed no threat to a bean like him. He could've bitten him, but if the bean had put him in a closet, or locked him in the room, then he wouldn't have been able to interfere. So, what was the importance of killing him?"

Sherlock nodded as she talked, "The dog could've been used to sniff out the murderer, or if the murderer had touched the dog, other dogs would have been able to use the scent that lingered on it to find him."

"Maybe he just didn't want any witnesses at all," John suggested, but Isidora wasn't convinced.

"He saw me. And, he didn't touch him," Isidora explained, "He didn't have to touch anything except the front door. Besides, he was wearing gloves. Maybe... He did it as a sign... Or a warning." The taxi came to a halt, and Sherlock scooped her small body up as John paid the cabbie. She yelped, as she fell into Sherlock's pocket again. At least he had been gentler this time.

As she sat uncomfortably in his pocket, she began to think more. If the killer really didn't want any witnesses, why hadn't he attempted to kill her? She screamed when he did... Whatever he did to Prince, alerting him of her presence. And then he saw her, which still terrified Isidora to think of. Surely this man had fast reflexes. It would've taken him less than a second to just snatch her out of the floor. Or, if he wanted to, he could have found some way to get to her while she was still in the floor, or when she was hallucinating! Why let her live and not Prince?

The door slammed closed, and she started, jumping up. She felt Sherlock move again, his pocket swinging slightly from her weight in it. It was a bit dizzying, but she tried not the think of it. Instead of focusing on the moving black walls she as encased in, she focused on the voices around her instead.

"Oh, back so soon?" She sounded old. Maybe that elderly woman Isidora had seen the other day?

"Yes, it wasn't a big murder - just someone being poisoned, but it may tie into the other ones that's been happening," John replied.

"Oh! Is it a serial killer?" She sounded excited, for some strange reason.

"We don't know yet," Sherlock replied, his deep voice rumbled against the side pocket she was in, make it vibrate slightly.

"Well, I certainly hope it is," the old woman replied. "You'll like a good serial killing, won't you, Sherlock?" She didn't give him the chance to answer before she began to speak again. "When was the last time you washed that coat of yours? Give it over, it probably smells horrid."

Isidora's eyes widened as she felt her surroundings shift and move. Wash!? Sherlock wouldn't let her drown, would he? "That won't be necessary," Sherlock replied. Isidora began to look around, for some kind of escape. She could feel the sides of the pocket getting damper and damper, filling with water. They began to pour in from every small hole in the cloth - the main one had been sealed off somehow.

The water rose to her ankles and she tried not to gasp. Banging on the sides, she tried to force her way out of his pocket. No! Not again! Not now, and certainly not here! This can't be happening! She can't be drowning! This isn't real!

"I insist, Sherlock dear," the woman continued, oblivious to the water that had been up to her knees now. She began to panic, trying to stop the holes, but there were so many, and it seemed to be filling faster. Now, it was at her waist. "You'll be up all day and night for this case probably, and out all day tomorrow. Let me throw it in the wash real quick. You won't even notice it's gone." It was at her chest now. She could feel her movements slowing down as she moved through the water. Stop! Make it stop, please!

"Ms. Hudson, I may need to go out later today," Sherlock replied. She felt tears run down her face. She didn't want to die... "And, I'd rather not waste time arguing over something as trivial as this." Sherlock was walking again, heading up the steps quickly. She gasped as the water filled her lungs and she sank to the bottom of his pocket. Isidora's lungs burned like fire from lack of oxygen. She felt herself bump against his leg going up and down and up and down and up and down and-

A door opened, and closed quickly, and a hand snaked through the pocket. The water spilled out immediately as the pocket was unsealed. Pale hands grabbed her around the waist as she gasped for air, "What was wrong with you?" Sherlock asked, raising her up to his face. She fell limp in his hands, too weak to look at him. "Isidora?" No response. She had been breathing - shallowly, that is.

He set her down on a hard surface, and Isidora curled up into a ball, trying to process what had just happened. Another hallucination, but she wasn't able to stop it. Too many things were going on at once, she couldn't focus. She had drowned, but... Not really. Maybe she was still drowning. Or maybe she really was actually drowning and it hadn't been a hallucination!

No, she reached a hand out, slowly touching her hair. Dry. She couldn't have drowned and be dry so easily. She was alive. It was just another hallucination.

She sat up slowly and shakily, now realizing that someone had been calling her name. It was Sherlock. He had set her on a wooden table and was not staring at her intently. "What happened?" He demanded once he noticed she was still living.

"H... Hallucination," Isidora replied slowly. "I... I thought I was drowning again."

"Impossible. You were in my pocket and nowhere near water," Sherlock said immediately.

"My mind didn't know that," she gave a bitter laugh. "I was drowning again and I couldn't focus. Too many things going on. I couldn't... I..." Isidora looked down, "I almost died..."

"You were nowhere near dying," Sherlock replied smoothly. "As for hallucinating, I have no clue what could've caused that. There wasn't anything that you could have inhaled to make you hallucinate."

"It was in my head..." Isidora explained and took deep breath. "Don't worry, it happens all the time. Well, not all the time, but a lot."

Sherlock stared at her for a second, before saying, "You're a psychopath." It hadn't been a insult, more of a statement, an observation. And, he wasn't wrong; she was a psychopath, mostly inherited from her mother before she... Passed.

Isidora blinked, "I didn't expect you to say it like that, but, yeah. I am..." She trailed off when she noticed Sherlock grin widely, his eyes full of excitement.

"You're small, somewhat intelligent, and a psychopath!" He hooted a laugh, "This must be my lucky day. You don't mind if I start preforming tests on you now." He didn't give her the chance to finish, because he began to go to the other side of the messy table, picking something up.

"What about the serial killer?" Isidora asked, trying to watch him as he ran around the kitchen, pulling things out of the cabinet and placing them on the table. There were several microscopes - she recognized them from several science books she had read - and other equipment, including a running wheel, which made her scrunch up her nose in distaste.

"Who cares about a serial killer?!" Sherlock said, now standing back in front of her.

"You do realize that I'm not a hamster, right?" She asked, glaring banefully at the running wheel.

Sherlock simply shrugged, "It's for science."

"You can't just drop an entire case just to experiment on me," Isidora glared. She didn't like the thought of being experimented on, but she also wanted the man who killed the Tuckers - who killed Prince - to be found and brought to justice. That couldn't happen if Sherlock, the bean who was supposed to find the man, was too busy studying her like a bug. "What if he gets away!?"

Sherlock stared at her for a few seconds, before muttering to himself, "Damn, you're right," and getting up from the table. He has left Isidora where she was, and went to a chair across the room, sitting down and pulling up a silver rectangle beside him.

Isidora looked at the counter, then back at him, "What about me?"

"You're extremely agile and great at climbing," Sherlock replied from the other side of the room. "Find your own way off." Isidora sighed, sitting down. She didn't feel like moving anymore after being in a pocket for the better part of the day. In fact, she was really tired. So, she leaned against the back of a glass cylinder, and fell asleep.

"Hey, Sherlock, do you know where Isidora is?" John asked as she stepped into the main room. Sherlock was still on his laptop, typing ferociously on something. "I found some scar medicine that'll help with her back."

"Table." Sherlock answered quietly, not looking up from his laptop. John, turned around, a puzzled expression tugged on his face, until he found Isidora curled up on the wooden table sleeping underneath a worn kitchen rag.

"Oh..." John muttered, now realizing why Sherlock had been a bit quieter than usual. Then, he turned back to Sherlock, "Have you gotten her anything to eat yet?"

"She needed to be fed? She never asked."

"Sherlock," John groaned. "She's a person too, you know. She's probably starving." John turned and went to the cabinet where he kept most of his food - since all the other ones, and the fridge, had been overrun by overdue experiments. He pulled a napkin out, and a slice of bread. Then, he tore it in half twice, and placed it on the napkin and set it beside her.

At the smell of food, Isidora bleary opened her eyes. She looked at the two men for a second, then at the food, "Merci pour la nourriture, John."

John blinked at the girl, "What?"

She cleared her throat, and picked up the rather large piece of bread, "Sorry. Thanks for the food," she bit into it, savoring every bite of the bread. She hadn't eaten in days and although this wasn't a five-star meal, it was something. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of it getting filled after being barren for a few days.

"You speak French?" Sherlock asked, and Isidora nodded.

"I speak a lot of languages," she shrugged, taking another bite.

"How?" John asked, now very curious.

"I used to live with a bibliophile," she explained. "He had all types of books in all these different languages. When I was young, I would read them, since there wasn't anything else I could do."

"Wouldn't they be too big for you to read?" John asked, but she shook her head.

"Usually, he would leave them out and forget about them. Or, I would just push the thinner ones off the shelf. Those were usually the small biographies or encyclopedias on one subject - dogs, cats, fish, et cetera. I'd wait for him to pull out the thick ones, and then when he'd leave them out, I'd read them at night." Isidora paused, "I think he was multilingual too, now that I think about it."

"How many languages do you know?" Sherlock asked.

Isidora turned to her fingers, counting them off as she went. "Uh... English, Spanish-grew up speaking that, though-French, German, Italian, Russian, Bulgarian, Chinese-but only mandarin-Japanese, and Romanian." She looked at her hands where she ticked off all the languages she knew. "Oh, wow. That's a lot." She finished the last of her bread in a single bite and grinned.

"You think," John scoffed, and poked her in the side with his finger. "You're a bloody genius, that's what you are."

"Ah, I'm not a genius..." She replied meekly, rubbing the back of her head. "The bean though, he was a genius. My papa also told me to stay away from him and his books, but I didn't listen."

"There's more of you?" Sherlock asked, his eyes widening in excitement.

"U... Uhm... I don't know anyone here, but back where I'm from, there's a lot of borrowers like me. They're probably harder to find in the city, which was why I was so surprised to find the markings on his ring." She hoped that bringing back up the murderer would get Sherlock away from the topic of other borrowers, who would be more reluctant to meet the two men than she was.

Sherlock had taken the bait easily and looked back on his computer. "The ring itself is gold, not worth much though. The markings are also recent, after a bit of closer examinations you could tell that there weren't any dust or dirt in-between the crevices of the carving. The killer wasn't out for money, however, because all the money was left back in cash register."

"So he couldn't be a financial advisor?" John said, sitting down in his chair. Isidora was still on the table, and sitting. She wouldn't be able to get off without her saddlebag, which was accidentally left in Sherlock's coat pocket when she had had her episode.

Isidora looked behind herself, into the expansive table. She could make something out of this. Rolling her shoulders, Isidora ventured into the messy table. "Precisely. And even with all the first victim's records, none of them looked like the man Isidora described."

"So... Then who is it?" John asked, staring thoughtfully at his flat mate. "Does he even have any connection to the victims at all? How do we know these aren't just random murders?" Isidora came back out with a handful of very useful supplies. She had found a pen, a lot of dental floss, and shard of leftover, broken glass.

"They have to have something in common," Sherlock muttered. "It's always a different couple, all ranging in social classes. They're not concentrated to one general area. The latest one is different, however. Usually it's a cut to the throat, but this one was a poisoning. Why? He couldn't overpower him. The murderer is a strong man, but not strong enough to take someone as powerful as him by hisself. So, he subtly poisons him. Something he knew that the would be eating so it might only affect him. And, after hours too, nobody would be there to see." Isidora drove the glass into the wood, and then wrapped the dental floss around it securely. Then, she undid the parts of the pen, taking out the spring, and eased it around.

She grinned, tossing the other end of the floss over the edge of the table, waiting until it hit the ground, before wrapping her hands around the minty string, and slid down herself. It had all been find for maybe two and half seconds, she didn't want to go down too fast and break the delicate line, so she slipped down slowly, yet efficiently.

"I'll be right back," John said, turning around to go out of the room. Then, he bumped his hip into the table, making the entire line shake. Isidora gasped, trying to hurry down the last few feet, but it was too late.

The line snapped like a twig, and Isidora was free-falling again. It took her a minute to land, and when she did, it knocked the wind out of her. She fell onto a something really soft, and was moving fast. She yelped as it finally collided with a chair leg underneath the table. Isidora door rolled off the side, and hit the ground with a painful thud.

"As I was saying," Sherlock continued coolly, but neither John, nor Isidora were listening.

"What was that?" He asked, bending down to look underneath the table. Isidora was lying face down on the floor, not moving. "Isidora! Are you okay?" She didn't reply for a second, then, she flashed him a weak thumbs up.

"What? I gave her a pillow," Sherlock said. "She should be fine."

"Throwing a pillow as fast as the speed of bloody sound to someone that small isn't going to help soften anything," John drawled, rolling his eyes. He scooped Isidora up and for once, she didn't complain. "Let me check your head," he said, and she tried to sit up straighter, only to wobble and fall back down on her butt.

"Make the room turn stop turning..." She murmured, holding her head. "God, that hurt..." John walked her over to Sherlock, setting her on the desk softly.

"I'm gonna get that scar cream," John said, and walked out of the room.

Isidora looked at Sherlock, "Thanks for the headache, bastard."

"You're welcome. I did save your life, after all."

"I would've survived."

"At a distance like that? You'd have a better chance jumping off the top of the London Bridge."

"I've fallen from worse," Isidora shrugged, glancing at his laptop, where he had been looking at pictures of a body she didn't recognize. "Who's that?"

"Glenda Harwell. She was the second victim."

"Second? I thought that the baker was the second."

"No, he was the third. You weren't here for the second murder."

"Can I see the pictures?" Sherlock tilted his laptop in her direction so he could have a better view of the photographs as he flipped through the slideshow-pictures.

She was a old woman lying face-up in a pool of blood on a carpeted floor. Isidora could see cat hairs all over her fleece sweater, and in the carpet, but otherwise, she looked normal for a old, female bean. Isidora scanned the room, it had peeling yellow flowery wallpaper. Isidora could almost smell the cheap-sharp perfume beans like she would wear, and she gagged to herself.

Isidora almost turned away, disinterested, until she saw a small carving on a picture frame in one of the slides that caught her eye. "Wait!" She shouted before Sherlock could change pictures.

"What?"

Isidora pointed to the strange carving. "Zoom in right there."

"Why?"

"Just do it." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but obeyed, making the small section of picture bigger so she could get a clearer look.

"I already looked at this crime to the very last pixel. What else could be different?"

"That," Isidora pointed at the screen, where the strange carving had been enlarged so now he noticed it as well. It was the same carving on the ring.

A borrowers sign was carved on the frame of a picture. "I found our connection with all the murders," Isidora said, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "They're all homes of borrowers."


	5. five

Chapter Five:

Isidora began to pace back and forth. How could these murders be connected with borrowers? Why would he kill beans anyway!? It would be much easier to murder someone like her, but to kill four human beans and counting!? That's... Isidora couldn't even imagine what it was like.

Maybe, Isidora wondered, maybe he was just targeting borrowers and the beans were in the way? But then why didn't he kill her when he got the chance? Also, there's no way a borrower would live in a place like that lady did. According to Sherlock, she had three cats, which were three too many for anyone! And then the borrowing sign was in such a obscure place, no borrower would be able to see it!

Isidora sat on the stack of books in a pout, thinking hard about the murders and their strange connections. "They make no sense," She muttered, rubbing her temples.

"Pardon?" Sherlock asked, looking up from his laptop.

"They don't make any sense!" Isidora repeated, loud enough for him to hear this time. "All there's no connection! All these murders have been in places borrowers would never live! No borrower with the right mind would live in a bakery or with three cats or with a dog!"

"I'd hate to remind you that you were the one living with the dog, Isidora." Sherlock said dully, not looking up from his laptop.

"I said in the right mind," Isidora grumbled, making the man scoff. "I'm the exception, but all those other ones, all those other murders, those are normal borrowers! No normal borrowers are going to live with those kinds of beans."

"You realize it's 'human being', correct?"

Isidora rolled her eyes, "That's not the point, Sherlock! What I mean, is—" the door opened. Isidora was quick to move, jumping off the side of the books to hide between them and the chair, successfully out of sight.

"Hate to barge in like this," the frail voice of the old woman said, and Isidora cringed. It was the same woman who made her hallucinate earlier. "But, your brother's downstairs, he said he wanted to speak with you. Such a lovely fellow he is."

"Tell him to leave, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said coldly. Isidora wondered a bit why he acted so cold towards a sibling. Sure, she was rough on her little brothers, but that was because she was the eldest and a bit of harmless teasing helps kids learn. "I'm busy."

"I did dear, but he insisted on—"

"Hello brother," Sherlock's elder brother interrupted the woman, after she gave a bit of a surprised shout. "We need to talk."

"No thanks," Sherlock replied. "I'm not in the mood to hear your rather obnoxious whinging."

"I think it's important and you'll want to hear about it." Sherlock glared at his brother.

"Is there nowhere I can hide from your annoying stories, brother?" Isidora didn't waste a second on her subtle message. She scurried to the end of the table, luckily being shielded by several books. But, she swore under her breath when she realized she had no rope or anything to hook something with. "I suppose you're not going to leave then?"

"Not in the slightest," his brother replied, smugly. Isidora grimaced, realizing she would just have climb down the side of Sherlock's chair and hope she doesn't get spotted.

"I'll go prepare some tea, you both must be so thirsty," Mrs. Hudson said. Isidora heard a footsteps leading out the door before she jumped, clinging to the fabric of Sherlock's chair as she climbed down.

There was a short pause, "Do you have mice, Sherlock?" Isidora froze, then began to climb faster. It was useless, however, at the rate she was going. It'd take nearly five whole minutes to get to the ground. It would take only two seconds for someone to notice her dangling small body and snatch her up.

"I don't believe that has anything to do with your being here," Sherlock replied smoothly. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"I had some information on your latest... Investigation, that I thought it would be interesting for you to know." Isidora heard some shuffling, before the stranger, Mycroft, apparently, spoke again. "They call themselves borrowers. They're an interesting species that are almost the same as humans, except for two things."

"And what's that?" Sherlock mused.

"Well, for one, they're rather small. The tallest one we've seen is six inches." Isidora gaped, trying to imagine a six-inch borrower. "And, they are very sociable with each other. In fact, they need other 'borrowers' to live. It's like taking an ant from its colony; they won't survive for long. If they are isolated for too long, they — to put it simply — go mad."

"Really?" Sherlock hummed, probably really intrigued by this new information. Isidora swore to herself as she hurried to the ground. She was almost there... "And where do I find these 'borrowers'?"

"Finding them isn't as simple as catching them," Mycroft replied. "They stay in groups, but are rather cautious, actually. Because of this, it limits our studies on them, which is why all borrowers are usually... Collected, so we can study them more efficiently." Isidora's eyes widened. They... They're testing on her people!? Using them as lab rats.

Isidora felt someone grab at the back of her shirt, lifting her in the air. She gasped as she was face to face with a man in a white lab coat, with sterilized blue gloves covering his hands. No, no, this isn't real! Isidora thought, her entire body shaking. This is just another trick! Stop!

The man held her under a bright light making her squint. She clawed at his hands, trying to get away, but his grip was tight. This is just another hallucination! I need something to snap me out of it! Isidora glanced around for something — anything — to assist her, but the setting, beside the scientist who was currently shuffling through some very sharp medical tools along the side, was a milky white.

"Stop freaking out!" Her Papa screamed in her ear. "That won't solve anything, cabrón!"

Isidora listened to her father's words and exhaled. He's right. Think. She was climbing down the side of Sherlock's chair, correct? So, if she fell, then that would definitely snap her out of the—

Isidora felt the scientist stab the needle through her lungs making her gasp in pain. Her hands released the cloth on the chair and she fell limply through the air. Isidora hit the ground on her back and groaned. Her head was spinning and her sight blurring. That was one way to do it... "What was that?" She vaguely heard the booming voice of Sherlock's sibling.

"Get up, damn it!" Papa hissed. "If he sees you, you'll never be able to find out what happened to that dog of yours!" Isidora struggled to stand, only to have her knees give out from under her. She barely had the strength to see straight, much less walk properly.

"What was what?" Sherlock asked, feigning ignorance.

"Don't act like you didn't hear that," Mycroft replied. She heard a chair move and footsteps. "I swear, if this rubbish dump you call a flat is infested—"

"It was probably nothing, stop being ridiculous." Isidora heard Sherlock scoff before hearing more footsteps, this time they were farther, though. "John, would you get a book off the shelf behind me?"

"Why didn't you get it?" John said, almost whining, but came anyway.

"Because I'm conversing with my fellow spawn," Sherlock replied. "Which I am growing bored of, so if that's all, Mycroft, then you can see yourself out." Isidora heard heavy footsteps heading her direction, making the ground rumble slightly with every step.

"That isn't how you tell a guest to leave," Mycroft scolded, but Isidora heard his chair scrap against the ground anyway. "You're welcome for the clues, by the way." Suddenly, a large shoe slammed down just a hair away from Isidora's face and she yelped, crawling back. The room went silent as John glanced down, his eyes widening a hair.

"It is a rodent, isn't it?" Mycroft hissed in a low tone. "Why didn't you call a—"

"It's not," John said quickly. Isidora's eyes widened, he wouldn't dare tell him that— "It's his mouse he likes to use for his experiments. It must've gotten out of its cage." John quickly scooped Isidora up, cupping her small, two-and-a-half in body in his large, sweaty, fleshy hand. "I'm gonna take he—it to its cage," John lied, dropping a book in Sherlock's lap before quickly leaving the room.

Isidora heard Mycroft scold Sherlock for his lack of caring for his 'pet' as John hurried out of the room and down the hall to his room. He quickly close the door and opened back up his hands. Isidora leaned against his fingers, a hand draped over her torso and she was breathing heavily.

"Are you okay?" John asked, concern filling his blue eyes.

Isidora was quiet for a second before letting out a short laugh. "... Dandy," she wheezed.

John shifted his hand, making her slide against his fingers, blood smearing his hand. "You're bleeding," he noted, allowing her to rest on his nightstand.

"Realized," she gasped, leaning against a lamp for support. "I'll... Live. Don't worry, heh, just a lil' blood ain't kill no one, right?"

"Stop talking," John ordered, pulling out his medical kit. "Damn that Sherlock, I told him to not treat you like a bloody rag doll, and now look at you!" Isidora laughed, then winced when her head began to pound like a drum. "Why were you on the floor? Did he drop you?"

"I fell," she snickered, feeling dizzy. "Because... The guy was gonna get me. Poked me right here—"

"You need to rest," John said finally. "And stop falling from high places."

"I wasn't that high..." She muttered, but plopped down against the lamp, exhaustion clouding her mind.

John sighed, "Take off your shirt. Let me redo those bandages."

Isidora managed to chuckle, "Buy me a drink first."

John let out a scoff, raising a blonde eyebrow at the rather diminutive girl, as she stripped off her shirt for a second time today. "You think you can out-drink me?"

"You'd be surprised how fast my metabolism is," she said as she took off the old, blood soaked bandages, and allowed John to disinfect the new ones. He also rubbed a bit of the scar cream he found before re-bandaging it.

John shook his head, "You should be fine. But, you need to rest — allow your body to make more blood, since you seem to love to leak it everywhere."

Isidora sniggered, "Shameless habit, sorry." John rolled his eyes, picking her up easily and moving her to his bed. He placed her on the surface of his hard pillow, amusedly watched as she sunk in a bit. Isidora didn't seem to mind and curled up on the spot. "Thanks Doc."

"Stay out of trouble and we won't have this issue," John scolded.

Isidora managed a short laugh, "I'm a nutcase, John. Insanity is my middle name. Well, it's not, but whatever." John chuckled, ruffling her hair with his finger, and she giggled.

"Sleep, before I spray some Benadryl spray in your face." Isidora laughed at his threat, and fell asleep quickly.

I'm sorry for such a, hehe, short chapter, but I thought it would be nice to leave it off there.

What do you of Mycroft's information, or really, Isidora's reaction. I thought it could've been better, so I may change it, but for now, here ya go.

I hope you liked his little (lolol) information about 'borrowers' need to be around each other, or else they, go insane! I kinda, maybe, got that from Yordles in League of Legends — if you play that game, pm me lol.

Really, Viegar's case, so if you don't play the game, lemme give you an elevator summary:

Yordles are a race of small... Furries in LoL who need to be around other furries or else they go insane. In Viegar's case, he was isolated for several years, went completely insane, and now doesn't like to be around anyone — which isn't really helping his sanity. So, he became a small cat furry who wants world domination !

So yeah! That's it for now, if you download league of salt, I'll totally play with you. I'll see y'all later and remember...

Don't melt~!

~Happyritas OOO


	6. six

Chapter Six:

Isidora woke up to the door slamming open. The loud bang as the door made contact with the wall made her jump, and the vibrations that shook the entire room because of it caused her to slide off the pillow and land awkwardly on the bed.

Footsteps pounding beside the bed, as familiar pale hands searched on the mattress. Finally, Sherlock's blue eyes made contact with her brown ones and he brought her up by the end of her shirt. He raised her to eye level so quickly and dizzyingly that it took Isidora minute to catch her breath and push back the hallucinations that dared to show their faces.

"You did not mention that the reason you are insane was that you are disconnected from other borrowers," Sherlock snapped, adjusting his grip so that she'd be standing in his palm.

Isidora crossed her arms and glared at the man, "Good fucking morning to you too," she snarled agitatedly.

"There is no need to swear—"

"There is a need to swear when you think that it's okay to snatch me out of bed while I was very pleasantly sleeping just to ask me a stupid question — that could have easily been answered if you had taken the goddamn time to wait for me to wake up on my own fucking accord and asked me like a proper human bean!" She hissed, "Put me down, Sherlock!" Sherlock harrumphed but moved his hand to the nightstand, allowing Isidora to climb down.

Isidora ran her fingers through her hair, inhaling and exhaling to calm herself down, "What do you want?"

"To know why you didn't tell me exactly how you were insane," Sherlock replied, moving to sit on John's bed.

"Because your brother was wrong," Isidora replied. "I am a psychopath, but not for that reason."

"What do you mean?"

"My insanity was inherited from my mother. It wasn't so bad when I was younger, however when... When I left, it got much worse that it should've because of my lack of sociability. However, putting me back in a room full of borrowers wouldn't change it, I'm too far gone now. In fact, it simply makes it worse and will drive me away, and probably trigger a hallucination." Isidora stood and stretched, "Do you have any food? I'd hate to die of starvation."

"Why wouldn't it work? Have you tried?"

"Yep," Isidora grinned, "Lovely hallucination afterwards. I didn't know nooses could be so tight!"

"You hallucinated that you committed suicide?" Sherlock asked, dropping his hand to carry here. Isidora rose an eyebrow, but slowly stepped onto the open palm.

"Nope. The other borrowers tried to kill me, and then feigned it as a suicide. They seemed so nice too," she gave a sigh. "When I came back to reality, I freaked out and ran. Haven't been around other borrowers since."

Sherlock walked to the kitchen, setting her down on the table to go rummage through the fridge, "The folder he gave me showed pictures of borrowers that had been isolated for long periods of time. Why aren't you like them?"

"Pheromones," Isidora answered simply as Sherlock placed a slice of bread on the table. It took a lot of effort, but she was able to tear off a sizable piece and munch on it.

"Pardon?" Sherlock rose an eyebrow.

Isidora swallowed, "Pheromones. 'A chemical or substance produced or released into the environment by an—'"

"I know what pheromones are," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What does that have to do with your sanity?"

"Borrowers have it," she explained. "My theory is that borrowers are hard wired to go insane, but don't because of them."

"Is it part of your theory that you release pheromones," Sherlock frowned.

"Nope. I can see the pheromones released," She leaned against a microscope, taking another bite of bread. "This is really good bread. I would hate to choke on it," she commented with her mouth full.

"You can see pheromones?"

She swallowed, "Plain as day."

"And all borrowers have them?"

"Yep, and some humans."

"Some?"

"Yep. You have it, but very faintly, and so did bean Gregory," Isidora paused, "Oh."

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"He had it too," Isidora whispered, "That–That baker. I didn't realize it then, but... His ring smelled like it. I bet that cat lady had it too!"

"Why borrowers," Sherlock muttered. Isidora heard the vibrations of footsteps and jumped up, running to hide behind the microscope.

The door opened and a woman spoke, "Sorry dear, I just need to fetch something I might have left in here. I'll only be a minute." It was the old woman from earlier.

Isidora ran deeper into the immense mess that was on the table in order to stay hidden from sight. The woman came to the kitchen counter as Isidora continued to run. "Hmm... I know I spotted it in here not two days ago!" Have you a clue where the cast iron sauce pans have gone Sherlock? I'm afraid I had to toss mine's out, it was getting too old to cook it. I've had it since my twenties, you know."

Somehow, Isidora had strayed too far and found herself nearly falling off the edge of the table. Isidora gasped, backpedalling. Her foot slipped on the end of a long lost place mat, and she fell backwards, making a few cylindrical measurements rattle.

Ms. Hudson turned sharply, her eyes searching the table. Isidora ducked, inhaling sharply. "Did you hear that?" Ms. Hudson asked from above. Isidora slowly moved, keeping her eyes towards the direction of where she sounded.

"Your saucepan? John used it not too long ago," Sherlock spoke, shifting the conversation. "Did he not return it to you?" Isidora continued to move towards the middle of the table and safely away from the edge.

"No, no, I'm sure I would have remember him returning it..." Ms. Hudson paused, before speaking again, "What is this?"

"A slice of bread," He replied, and Ms. Hudson made a face.

"You know what I mean, Sherlock," the woman scolded. "How many times have I told you that you cannot leave bread out to mold! If you keep it contained then fine, but this is unsanitary!" Ms. Hudson marched to the rubbish bin and tossed out Isidora's food. She gave a small, disappointed sigh, but continued to slowly walk backwards.

The back of her head hit the side of a rough piece of metal. She hissed, cradling her throbbing skull, but turned to see what she had hit.

A cast iron sauce pan.

"There it is!" Ms. Hudson laughed as Isidora ran to duck for cover. "Ha, my eyes just ran right over it!" The woman raised the pan as Isidora curled up near the bottom of a glass cylinder, praying the woman wouldn't notice her. "Thank you, Sherlock! I'll get out of your hair now," the woman replied cheerily, moving to exit the room.

Isidora laid prone on the table, wheezing. Sherlock stayed at his seat, "Are you alright?"

"... Give me a second," she spoke, even though she knew it wasn't loud enough to hear. After she finally caught her breath, Isidora stood and made her way back to the front of the table in order to climb down.

"Took you long enough," Sherlock commented. He was on his computer now, intricately observing the screen. "How would one know if they have the pheromones?"

"You don't," Isidora answered. "Only borrowers can see it. Although your body may be natural producing it, it's far too thin for anyone to notice. Borrowers, on the other hand, have more. I think that it's the same amount that you have, however, since our bodies are much smaller than yours, it's easier to sense."

"Has there ever been anyone who was born without it?"

"Often there is, but they usually don't survive very long. That's one of the leading causes for miscarriages, actually," Isidora paused. "I don't know if this is true for everyone, but whenever I move, I always try to find a bean who has the pheromone, because even if it's a little, like you beans have, it keeps us level headed, especially if you're a roamer like me."

"And you think that's the connection?"

"Well, I'm not positive, but it's a—" the door opened.

"Sorry again, I forgot my—" Ms. Hudson turned to the table, her eyes connecting with Isidora's small body. She could feel herself freezing up, her throat choking, her eyes widening to saucer. Isidora couldn't run away, she wasn't fast enough. She was seen. The woman would kill her, reduce her to nothing but a spot on the wood floor.

Isidora barely had time to raise her hands to her ears as the woman screamed in alarm, "Mouse!"

Sorry for the — hehe — tiny update (I'm sorry, I'm gonna stop). I thought that it would be good to post this, and it has a hell of a lot of information and plot development.

I'll try to get more out soon, but no promises. I'll see y'all next time, and remember...

Don't melt~!

\- Happyritas OOO


	7. seven

Chapter Seven:

Isidora barely registered the woman's scream as she dropped the frying pan. Suddenly, the floor rumbled beneath her, as if it were shifting completely.

Isidora let out a cry of surprise as she held fast to a nearby object. At the same time, she tried to move out of the woman's field of vision. It was no use, however, because the woman began to shout again. "Kill it!" She hissed, and Isidora's blood ran cold. "I don't want bloody mice in my apartment!"

"That's not a mouse," Sherlock replied, his tone sharp. She felt the ground shake as footsteps neared her, and reacted. She ran into the immense mess that was the kitchen table, hiding underneath a overturned book. She curled up, breathing heavily. Isidora could feel her scenery changing. The old woman lifting the book with one of her massive hands, a deadly can of rat poison in the other.

The woman squeezed the release and the dangerous gas instantly filled the air. Isidora tried to run, only to find her feet glued to the ground with a sticky trap. She was going to die. She was going to die.

Isidora held her breathe, squeezing her eyes shut as tears grew in them. After several minutes, the lack of oxygen was beginning to affect her. The edges of her vision flashing red, and her entire body swaying dangerously.

Isidora inhaled and immediately the hallucination was released. She was left gasping, still hiding underneath the book. She could hear the woman's voice above her. "I told you several times, Sherlock! If you must keep mice, keep them in their cages! If you leave them out like that, they'll attract more!"

Isidora didn't hear Sherlock respond, but the book around her was lifted. She let out a small squeak in surprise, looking around for something else to cover her. "I hear it!"

Isidora stayed silent, her heart pounding. The hallucinations got ten times worse, she imagined the woman hitting her repeatedly with a book until she turned into a bloody red smear on the table. Or, batting her so hard that she hit the wall on the other side of the room and died. Or, keeping her as a toy, or even bait for other small animals. Or, even keeping her and turning her over to Sherlock's brother, who liked to experiment on borrowers like herself.

Isidora couldn't help it. She didn't want to die, not after all that she had worked for so far! She couldn't die now, she refused to.

Isidora ran, dashing out from underneath the book to the edge of the table. If she could just make it, she already had her line set up, maybe it was still there!

But, she never got the chance. The old woman jumped in surprise, the side of her body slamming into the table, and sent Isidora sprawling. She tripped, her head colliding into the edge of a glass test tube. Her vision flashed black for a moment before she tried to get back up.

Something slammed down on her, and Isidora went stiff. "I'll put it back in its cage, Mrs. Hudson, no need to worry," Sherlock said, his tone cool and steady.

"I don't want rodents, Sherlock," the older woman warned. "If I see another one—"

"I know, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock drawled. "You have what you need, yes?"

Mrs. Hudson grumbled an answer, grabbing what she had came for before heading out the door. Sherlock waited until she was far enough away to take Isidora out of his pocket.

Isidora was curled tight, panting. The hallucinations still plagued her mind and hadn't yet stopped. She was being it open by the man with green eyes, that supposedly work with Sherlock's brother. Isidora tried to get away, but was tied down, helpless.

"Isidora?" Sherlock said, bringing the girl to eye-level. She hadn't reacted to anything, and was still breathing heavily. "Mrs. Hudson is gone now, and I'd much rather like it if you didn't have a heart attack. It would be hard to treat for someone at your size."

Isidora didn't respond. She simply curled tighter, gasping for oxygen. The old woman was now squeezing the life out of her, and Isidora couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't—

Her stomach sank as she was tossed through the air. Isidora was only able to scream as she fell, until suddenly she was caught before she hit the floor. "Finally," Sherlock muttered. "Are you done daydreaming?"

Isidora didn't respond. A hand moved to clench her chest, as if it could stop her heart from beating erratically. "Isidora? Are you alright?" Sherlock's tone was much more serious, as he studied her.

"Ca... Cagar (shit)... I..." Isidora trailed off, taking several deep breathes. "I need some time," she murmured. "Just let me think. Jus–Just let me—"

"Okay," Sherlock replied. He carried her to the desk beside his chair, pulling his laptop to him. Isidore sat quietly, her hands covering her face as she tried desperately to stop the hallucinations. Slowly, but surely, it worked.

"Hallucinations?" Sherlock guessed while Isidora breathed slowly. She only managed a nod, and rubbed her face. "If you don't mind, would you finish what you were saying? About the pheromones?"

"... Yes, right," Isidora sighed. "The connection of..." Isidora trailed off, closing her eyes for a second.

"If you don't want to talk at the moment, I suppose I can understand, especially after what just happened. I can leave you to rest in John's room, if you'd like." Sherlock suggested, a strange sincerity in his usually cold voice.

"No, no, I just... Sorry, that was just a lot to process, too much thinking — too much for my head to create scenarios of," Isidora sighed lightly, but straightened, staring straight into his icy blue eyes. Sherlock was genuinely surprised that someone her height could display so much confidence, even after what she had just gone through. It had been a bluff, of course — he could see right through it — but even still. People his height would never be able to look recoverable if they had been in her shoes three minutes ago.

"For the last murder, there were traces of pheromones on the baker, and from my own experience, the male bean also showed these pheromones," Isidora thought aloud. "Each one of the scenes were from places that no sane borrower would dream of living — due to the fact that death was very probable, if not inevitable in the near future, with myself being the exception."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed with her review. "However, we need to confirm if the second victim even had the pheromones? It's still in theory at the moment."

"Well, yes," Isidora agreed, "However, I've seen from the third murder, and a few pictures of the second, that each scene didn't have a trace of borrowers living there."

"How would you know if borrowers lived in an area?" Sherlock asked, curiously.

"The baker was a given," Isidora said. "Unless they were avoiding the flour with a precision that would need a certain extreme level of OCD to do, there would have been footsteps in the flour, at least one or two, but there were none. Not even an indent of a indent. So, the fact that they had a borrower sign in such a obvious place was strange."

Sherlock nodded, grinning a little. He had thought about this already, but wanted to see how Isidora would come to the conclusion — if she did — and so far, she was mostly right. "What else?"

"Well, the next question turns to, if borrowers did live there, then how did they manage to carve into gold. That should be impossible. Not only is it on the man's finger, but also because it's gold. No borrower in the right mind had that time, and patience to commit such a thing. Besides, borrowers don't borrow things that are noticeable, and I'm pretty sure 'wedding ring' is very high on that list. There's something else that bothers me too..." Isidora frowned, squinting at her toes.

"What is it?" Sherlock urged, liking the way she thought.

"The ring. If the carvings were old, then there would've been dirt in it, yeah?" Sherlock nodded, "But... When I looked in it, it was clean. If the carvings were old, then there had to be some kind of trace of dirt in it. Him being a baker, there could've been flour, but it was clean. So, the carvings are recent. Whoever murdered him could've done it."

"Clever," Sherlock praised. With eyes as keen as hers, it was something even he didn't point out. "But, with his time of death and the time it would've taken for the killer to carve it — and with such precision — it doesn't match up."

Isidora agreed, sitting down with a little sigh. "We need to go back to the Cat Lady's flat. I'm sure there's more clues there. ¡Maldito sea (damn it)! If only I could see it in person..." She trailed off, almost hoping Sherlock would catch onto his request.

"The body's already been sent away for examinations, and I highly doubt you'll want to see her. Not to mention the fact that I'm not taking you."

Isidora pouted, "You're no fun."

"You're too interesting to lose," Sherlock admitted, but she couldn't hear any actual sediment in his voice.

Isidora sighed, as if she had been disappointed by his compliment — if she could even call it that. "Well, mi amigo (my friend), I need more evidence of you want me to help."

"I'll find a way to get it to you," Sherlock replied.

"Great. Until then," Isidora sat against the books on the small stand where she stood, and leaned back. "I'm gonna take a well deserved nap." With that comment, Isidora rested her head and shut her eyes.


	8. eight

Chapter Eight:

Isidora was having a nightmare. Her father and her brothers, taken away by Sherlock's brother. Her baby brother, Alejandro was crying. He sobbed as Mycroft's large hands tore him away from Máximo and Dante. He dropped Alejandro in a small cage, and he fell on his back. Then, he took Máximo and dropped him in a test tube, sealing the top off with a cork. Finally, he stopped Dante in bowl of water, and put a plastic lid on too.

Meanwhile, her father was in his other hand, doing everything he could to escape. However, the old man was pushing fifty and hadn't been as young as he used to be.

Mycroft looked at her father, a look of disgust on his features. He dropped her father out of his hand. Isidora, along with her brothers screamed as her father fell, before finally hitting the floor with a crunch.

Isidora sobbed, along with her brothers, who screamed and cried for their father. She tried to go to him, to tell him, one last time, that she loved him, but Mycroft wasn't done. He looked straight at Isidora, a cold smile that sent ice up her spine directly at her. Then, he reached his hand towards her, his gangly pale fingers the size of tree trunks. Isidora's heart raced as her entire vision was blocked by his hand.

"Isidora!" Sherlock said and Isidora jumped. His finger was poking her side, and she moved away.

"What is it?!" She hissed, pushing away his finger.

"You were showing signs of agitation. I assumed you were having a nightmare," Sherlock said, sitting back.

Isidora relaxed, "I'm fine, don't worry," she muttered.

"If you say so," He hummed, then stood. "John and I have to go."

"Where?" Isidora asked.

"The Scotland Yard," he said.

"Oh," she frowned. "I wanna come."

"No," Sherlock said. "John and I already decided. You're going to sit here and rest."

Isidora sighed, but she really couldn't argue with the man. "Bien, bien (Okay, okay)," she laid back down. She needed to explore the house anyway. If she wanted to live here, she had to see the quality of the walls, and how she could get places easily.

Isidora rubbed her head, she was had a lot to do, now that she put it all in persepctive. Maybe she would just have to rest later.

Well, in order for her to do that, she needed better supplies. Luckily, she knew just the bean to ask. "Hey," Isidora called to Sherlock, who turned, looking at her. "Do you happen to have any fishing line?"

Sherlock and John decided to leave a toolbox out for Isidora, which had everything she could have ever dreamed of. Screws for easy steps in order to get to higher places, a new line, which was much stronger than her last one, a better hook, since her's was awfully dull and had the tendency to snap on her, and so much more.

Sherlock and John decided to leave her to her antics, but she had to promise John that she would get some rest. She did, after she finished her work of course. It was pushing six o'clock now, and she had a lot to do.

Isidora waved the duo off and then got to work.

Isidora wiped the sweat off her forehead as she continued to roam inside the walls. There was so much that she decided to work with one wall at a time. Although the rooms were small, the walls felt so much bigger because there was so much stuff. The nails protruding from the walls made it easy for Isidoraa's nimble body to get to where she needed. However, the corkscrew ones make indents in her fingers. If she wasn't looking, she would cut herself, which was no good. She'd have to wrap them with tape, or cloth, maybe.

Doing that, for every screw would be a feat in itself. So, Isidora filed it under with the rest of the 'to be done later' list. She also needed to make 'mouse holes' in the walls, so she could get from her home, to Sherlock and John easily.

After a couple of hours of looking around and observing, she decided to look into the walls of the flat down below them, where Ms. Hudson was. It was a ground level, so if she needed a way to get in and out of the flat quickly, she would be able to use it.

The ground level was pretty much the same to Sherlock's flat. It was a bit more bare than his, however, and the screws weren't as long. This meant that if she needed a quick exit, the shorter screws wouldn't provide as reliable exit from where she was to where she had to be.

Isidora had to think of a way to make the screws longer. She could have Sherlock make her a bunch of duct tape-ended screws that she could then use to get in and out. Or, she could abandon the screws altogether and use staples like the ones she saw in the toolbox. It would take longer to set up, but if she had a ladder opposed to having to Tarzan her way through shirt screws via a fishing line and hook, then her likely hood of surviving would increase drastically.

Isidora needed an entrance and exit. From the way she was positioned, she was in the walls at the back end of the flat. Therefore, directly in front of her was an alley, if her memory served her right.

Isidora made a mental plan of how to get in and out of the flat while she looked around. She found a small hole, probably a mouse hole from the size, that led outside. With a hand on her glass-knife, she slowly walked out, her eyes ready for anything that would jump out and attack her.

Isidora had already had a few scurries with a few spiders that tried to get her for dinner while she was looking around. Luckily, a jab to the abdomen and a leg promptly cut from a joint made them scurry away.

Isidora looked around. She had lost track of time because it was very dark, way into the night. She hadn't heard Sherlock and John come back -- however, she was pretty lost in thought. It was very likely that she coule have just ignored their entry.

There were two huge green dumpsters both overflowing with trash and slept awfully terrible. Isidora winced, holding her nose. She was about to go back inside when, all of a sudden, she heard sniffing.

It was quiet, but nearby. Hesitantly, she walked over, eyes narrowed and body crouched. She walked around the perimeter of the first dumpster to see a small human child, curled up, and sobbing.

The child was probably a thousand times bigger than her in everyway, and every instinct told her to get away from them. Children were far too grabby, which usually did not end well. But this child, probably no older than nine or ten, was crying, and sitting, squished between two dumpsters. So, they were either homeless or done tragedy had just struck without Isidora knowing so.

"Uh... Hey?" Isidora called out, gulping down a pint of anxiety. God, someone had to help the kid. Borrower or not, she wasn't cold-hearted.

The child looked up, confused and scared. Their eyes and their hair with matching shades of brown. Their eyes were puffy and their clothes shabby enough to be considered homeless. "Hey! Down here, compañero," Isidora called and the child looked down.

For a moment neither of them said anything. Then, the child screamed, moving farther in between the trashcans. Isidora swore, moving away from their flailing legs, trying to not get crushed, or worse.

"Oye! Oye!" Isidora snapped, making the child calm down slightly. "Chill out! What're you doing that for?!"

"You--You're one of them!" The child squealed, as if they were afraid of her, being a mere two inches tall.

"I assume by that you mean a borrowed? And if so, yeah. I am," Isidora frowned. "What of it?"

"You're... You're the reason why that man came! He said we--!" Tears began to form in their eyes again, and seconds later, they were sobbing.

"Hey, hey," Isidora said, inching a little closer. "Don't cry, cariño(sweetie)," Isidora coaxed. "I need you to tell me what happened, alright? I know people who can help, but I can't do that until I know exactly what happened, okay?"

The child sniffed, but nodded, "I... I was with Mommy and this man came into our house. He said... He said that we were helping evil little demons, and..." Their voice broke. "We had to be punished for it. Then, he put something in the walls and the room began to stink. A few minutes later, these... These small people, like you, came rushing out, coughing. He took them and put them in--in these cages. After that, he... He took out a gun and," the child choked, holding back tears. "H--He shot dad--daddy! There wa--was blood everywhere. M--Mom--Mommy was screaming. She pushed me towards the door and said run, and... He killed her too! Now, I'm here, and my mommy and Daddy are dead and--and--"

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay," She assured. "I need to know when this happened, alright cariño."

"I d--dunno, li--like ten min--minutes a--ago," Isidora paled.

"Mierda(shit)..." Isidora hissed under her breath. "Got it. Okay. That's fine. That's great, okay," she ran a hand through her hair. "Okay, can you pick me up? I'm going to bring you to some people who can help you, alright?" They nodded, and reached down. Isidora flinched as their long, chubby fingers wrapping around her body. "Put me on your shoulder," she ordered and the child set her down on their shoulder. Isidora backed between their long hair, trying not to be seen too much.

"Okay, we need to get out of here, alright? So, walk to the front, and--"

"Bu--But that's where the man was!" The child cried, and Isidora flinched, they were loud.

"I know, cariño, but we need to get out of this alley if we want to get you safe, alright? I need you to be brave," Isidora paused. "Today, you are a conquistador. You need to pass the tough seas in order to find a new home for your people. Everyone told you you could not do it, but you are going to prove them wrong. You can't back down now, you have to fight. Now go!" The child nodded, and Isidora stumbled, holding onto their hair.

The child ran out of the alley and Isidora let out a small yelp of alarm, but gripped their hair as they went. "Okay, turn right," Isidora ordered once they got to the end, and the child did. They ran across the street, before Isidora said to turn right again. A few minutes later, they were in front of 221 Baker Street.

"Knock, really loud. Alright. Then, ask to see Sherlock Holmes," Isidora instructed, and they did. The door opened, and Ms. Hudson answered. In a stuttering voice, the child asked to see Sherlock, and she nodded, and told the child to give her a moment.

Isidora looked around. She had never been this high before. And, compared to other humans. This wasn't high at all, but still.

She glanced down the street, and noticed a man, carrying a large bag. He was staring straight at Isidora and the child. His other hand was in his pocket. And his eyes, were dark green. His face was unmasked so she could see the squint in his eye, caused by a strange, rugged scar, his lips were pressed together and his face stern.

Isidora's heart sped. "Get inside!" She hissed, just as Sherlock came to the door. "Now!" The child ran inside, just as the man passed them, but it was too late.

There was an ear-shattering pop! As the man walked away, disappearing in the crowded.

The child fell to their knees, "No! No! Cariño! Baby, c'mon now, get up, you're going to be fine, honey, you're--" Sherlock's fingers curled around her waist, his index finger covering her mouth.

"Sherlock, what's going on?!" John called from the stairwell, followed by Ms. Hudson. "Wha--?!"

"Call the Yard," he said immediately. "Ms. Hudson, bring me down some towels, now!" Ms. Hudson scurried away, following his orders.

"Hey, dear, look at me," John said, coming to the child's side. His hands were pressed against their chest. "Look at me," the child's eyes were hazy, and tears were in them.

"Da--Daddy," they choked, blood trailing out of their pale lips. "H... He..."

Ms. Hudson came back, several towels in her hands, "Oh, my," she whispered, a hand covering her gaping mouth.

"No, no, no," John said, trying to keep the child awake, but their head lollies back, their eyes soulless as they stared into the sky.

Sherlock shoved Isidora into his robe pocket. Isidora sat, staring at darkness. She didn't realize that there were tears staining her cheeks for several minutes. Then, she began to sob.

Isidora must have been loud because Sherlock stuck his hand in his pocket, as if pocket to silence her. She heard the sound of police cars and an ambulance arriving to the door of 221 Baker Street, but they were already too late.

Isidora sat in his pocket for a long time, thinking about the child. About the man that killed them, the same one that killed Prince and that Baker and that old woman. The same man that killed Vanessa and Gregory. He killed the child's parents right in front of them. He killed them. The last few minutes of their life was spent in terror.

Isidora glared at the walls of the robe. Her mind began to trick her again. She was in a glass room, everything was glass, and in the glass was the child's face. They stared at her, they blamed her. She gave them hope and what for?

Isidora screamed, kicking the glass, making it shatter to the ground. She punched another, and it was destroyed too. She sobbed and cried, and fell to her knees.

Sherlock's hand dug into his pocket again. He picked her up by the waist and lifted her out. "You need to stop making so much noise," Sherlock said seriously. They were in his flat, and he set her on the kitchen table. Isidora didn't say anything, but she nodded and wiped her tears. The door opened and John stepped in, he saw Isidora and his face softened.

"You go downstairs," John said, pulling up a chair to sit at the table as well. "Lestrade wants you." Sherlock nodded, and didn't hesistate to leave. When the door closed, John finally sighed, "I'm sorry." Isidora nodded, but didn't say anything. "Did... You know him?"

Isidora shook her head, "I was in... In the back and he was crying. So, I... I went to him and..." Isidora sniffed. "I didn't even know his name, John."

"It's okay," John assured. "It wasn't your fault." Isidora nodded, "Stay here. Get some rest. We are probably going to have a lot to do tomorrow."


End file.
